


The chronicles of Wren: The story of Achilles and Patroclus

by pindenial



Series: The Chronicles of Wren [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 09:52:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11689194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pindenial/pseuds/pindenial
Summary: "But Patroclus dies first."In the midst of a war, Theo and Blaise find a moment to dream.





	The chronicles of Wren: The story of Achilles and Patroclus

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of two parts- The first half is feels, the second smut but I promise you, it's 100% cheese. Rough and unbeta'd but here, take.

> "In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk.
> 
> Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.”
> 
> Madeline Miller, _The Song of Achilles_

It is a muggle story. Part of a bigger tale, as old as wizardkind. A story of man and god and love and ego. It’s a story of war.

Are you Achilles or Patroclus, Theo asks because even they, as young wizards, are partial to a good story, muggle or not.

Theo watches Blaise and waits for the sneer to curl, to cuff Theo for such romantic notions. Theo watches Blaise like a beggar watches the feasting table of kings. 

“The great warrior lovers, huh? What about Alexander and Hephaestion?” The rich voice fits around the names comfortably, considerately. Blaise has always been a slow talker, delivers his insults with fanged precision. Hidden deep inside Theo’s ancestral home, they are hardly warriors, Blaise doesn’t say but obliges the blue-eyed boy nonetheless. 

“Well, Achilles was blonde, unfortunately.” Blaise rolls his eyes. “But, otherwise, we’ve a lot in common. Of noble birth, firstly. Widely considered the most beautiful man in the world.” As if checking off a list, he taps his fingers on the side of the plush couch that the boys inhabit. 

Theo laughs, swats at him in a weak attempt to dispel his arrogance. 

“But Patroclus dies first.” Blaise continues, voice never faltering as his hand snatches Theo’s wrist and presses it to his ebony throat. And suddenly his young face knows loss, the shadows in his gaze deepening. “It’s selfish but I’d never want to know how Achilles might have felt.” 

Invisible, Theo can see the scars of the boy shining in his dark eyes as he tries not to dwell on his losses; On Draco, imprisoned in his own home, or Blaise’s mother, exiled. 

Theo refuses to think of his own mother when Blaise is looking at him like he’s home. 

Fingers curl in the collar of Theo’s robes, causes his breath to hitch. But Blaise is right. The loss is paltry to the thought of losing… Blaise leans his face into Theo’s, shuts a pair of sombre eyes and presses their mouths together. 

“Come to bed, Achilles.” He finally murmurs into the shell of Theo’s ear. 

The war will always be there in the morning. 

Achilles was quick to anger. He was moody and ruthless; the perfect weapon. Theo is no Achilles. Nothing better than a coward, hiding from the war, from his father, in his books about ancient muggles. 

Theo takes Blaise to bed anyways, giddy with the thoughts of devotion, personified. He’s no Achilles, no Alexander but he knows Hephaestion- who pledged himself to Alexander the Great and followed him to the ends of the earth. Followed him until he perished, far from home. Theo looks at Blaise and knows that his desperate desire to survive this war only stretches as far as the arm-width of the man before him. 

They kiss languidly, shedding each other's clothes without any fervor until Theo’s knees touch plush carpet and Blaise is hissing at the sight. Theo takes Blaise into his mouth until the smell of him is forever committed to his memory.

The Zabini heir is demanding, always pushing Theo to heights that the raven thought unreachable. Dark hands in dark hair and Theo craves it, Blaise handling his face with long fingers, watching him ravenously as Theo tries to choke himself on his love. A few careful sucks, shallow thrusts and Blaise’s almond eyes are narrowing. He’s fighting off the high, quietly coming apart at the seams. 

Theo thinks that he would burn Troy to the ground to watch this forever, to taste salty precome bead and pool on his lips. An unsteady hand on his shoulder guides him up, and Blaise is pulling him onto his bed with a skilled tongue and the rough scratch of fingernails on scalp. 

“I want you in me.” Blaise says. I need you near me, Theo hears, feels as Blaise runs hands over slim, pale shoulders. Holding, possessing. 

Theo opens Blaise up slowly. Watches as thick, dark lashes flutter, his cupid mouth, so used to sharp words and insults, sighs against Theo. His tight body molds around Theo’s fingers like he was born for it and in a moment of mad delight, Theo suspects it true. 

“Theo,” Blaise gasps, stills Theo’s movements, “wait.”

Theo panics, recovers his hand, searches for pain on Blaise’s face in the half-darkness and finds none. Instead Blaise watches him, ardent and trembling. Catches himself and smiles, presses a kiss to Theo’s wrist. Theo feels his heart in his throat and suddenly knows. Knows why Patroclus rode out to die for Achilles. Why Achilles tore his enemies apart in vengeance. Blaise is looking at him like he’s perfect and it makes Theo ache to think that he can look at someone, at  _ Blaise _ , and see reflections of his own devotion shining back. 

Blood pounds in Theo’s ears and he kisses him. 

“Roll over,” He mumbles in a moment of bravery, cheeks flaming, and the groan that it pulls from Blaise makes it worth it. He sits back and watches Blaise turn slowly, reveal the long line of his back, sandwiched by the wide shoulders and pert bottom. 

Pale hands run along down strong thighs and Theo’s cock jumps to see Blaise spreading himself, wanton. “Theo,” the dark boy gasps, ragged with desire “hurry the fuck up. Please.” 

The last word is barely a whisper but Theo has to squeeze himself hard to stop himself from coming. He whines, lubes himself up and nudges Blaise’s entrance bluntly. 

As the scorching heat takes him, Theo struggles to keep his eyes open and fixed on the regal line of Blaise’s profile. When they were fourteen, Theo remembers the girlish talk, rumours that Blaise was part veela. He was silly to ever doubt it. Blaise’s mouth is open, gasping, cheekbones catching the light of the moon like he is made entirely of glass, ephemeral. 

But he’s hot like the fire that burns through Theo and the pale boy has to fight back tears of desire. “Fuck.” He whimpers as he finds himself sheathed fully inside his lover. Blaise moans in agreement, knuckles white against the dark sheets of Theo’s bed, thighs trembling. 

When Theo begins moving, the universe condenses into a single bead of sweat that pools at the base of Blaise’s spine. Suddenly, there is no war and Theo smiles like he’s discovered the cure for humanity’s poisonous hatred. Beneath him Blaise thrums, more alive that Theo’s ever seen him, keening and arching. 

Theo tugs Blaise back to him, changing the angle and putting a firm hand on Blaise’s weeping cock. “You sound so good, Theo. So good for me,” Blaise moans and Theo strains, loves how dirty it makes him feel. 

The slap of skin on skin, of mingled cries, bounces off the walls, fills his ears and Theo knows he’s not going to last very long. Fisting Blaise’s dick, Theo can feel the man tightening around him. His mouth falls to Blaise’s shoulder, muffling his pitched cries. 

“Blaise,” he tries, holding onto the man for dear life as Blaise’s hand finds its way into Theo’s hair and tugs. 

“Please, my love.” And as if waiting for express permission, Theo comes with a sob. Blaise follows promptly, two pairs of hands working him to completion. 

It is Blaise who moves first, grimacing as Theo’s cock slides out of him. He fetches his wands, cleans them both up. Theo is too blissed out to say much but his hands are reaching for the man, fingers touching his face, his eyes. Because Blaise will never be some dead muggle, but always Blaise and Theo can’t remember peace like this. 

“Hey,” he rasps eventually and dark eyes turn to take him in. “Patroclus.” 

He teases. Blaise smiles, as bleak as his eyes are warm. “Achilles. My hero.” He pauses, thinks for a moment. “Does this mean that as long as I live, you cannot die?”

Theo knows it’s a lie, a fantasy between two boys, but in the dark, the room still, it sounds a lot like a promise. And that’s enough, for now. 

**Author's Note:**

> So the title comes from the fact that this fic was originally a Rookwood/Dolohov drabble, written in the diary of Augustus Rookwood that I'm working on. I figured because Theo and Blaise are pretentious enough to probably enjoy the Classics, I'd write about my faves discussing my other faves. 
> 
> Also, you don't need to tell me, I flog the analogy like I might a dead horse.


End file.
